Put Your Hands Into the Fire
by limegreenwordmachine
Summary: Four months after the dramatic conclusion of the Kira case, Sayu Yagami is confronted with a new mystery all her own - her kidnapper. Near is investigating a string of enigmatic and difficult murders. And in the aftermath of tragedy, Linda is about to face her greatest task yet. Connected by a tenuous common thread, all three will have to rise to the challenge.
1. prologue

**Hi, guys. I'm limegreenwordmachine. I haven't written much for Death Note before, but that could change soon.**

**Here's the deal: this is the prologue to a story that is not quite ready for takeoff. I am posting this prologue because I have a vague idea of where this story is going, and I want to gauge interest and also to encourage myself to continue writing it at a reasonable pace. The story might become more defined in my head if I start posting a little bit of it. ****To be clear, posting this prologue is a commitment to writing this story. It is not a commitment to writing it all very soon. **

**If you're interested in seeing what the story is actually about, please follow it and give me a review of the prologue (doesn't have to be long). I'm hoping to get a solid outline and another chapter up fairly soon. Thank you for reading!**

There is a husky voice at the end of the line. "I have instructions for you."

"Forgive me for asking," says Nate River, "but who are you to give me instructions?"

A chuckle. "You don't owe me anything yet, but you will soon. And following these instructions will be the last thing you can do to pay your debt."

Nate River sits, quiet and still, for several minutes. He is weighing his options, and it would not be surprising if the person on the other end were to hang up. Then the pause breaks. "I will make no commitment of any sort," he says. "But I want to hear what you have to say."

../../..

_Come on now, Sayu. Get up off the floor._

But I don't want to.

_So you want to lie here until Mom gets home and panics and calls for help? It's not like you'll be able to explain to her why you're lying face down on the living room floor, you know. _

I don't want to get up.

_Pathetic._

Sayu doesn't reply to the critical voice in her head, preferring instead to remain planted on the rug in front of the TV, breathing in the scent of the powder her mother sprinkles in the carpet to make it smell nice when she vacuums. It's like lavender and vanilla. It's a little bit soothing, but not nearly enough to make her want to heave herself up and back onto the sofa. Maybe she can just suffocate herself by pressing her face further into the carpet. Being alive is so tiresome. _Feelings _are tiresome. Most tiresome of all is keeping all those feelings at bay.

But the voice of her childhood infatuation, Hideki Ryuga, blaring out of the TV reminds her that it is getting time for Sachiko to arrive home, and giving her mother a fright is neither kind nor sensible. Best to pretend she's done nothing more mentally strenuous than watch second-rate movies all day. Contemplating suicide is a no-no.

Sayu is damaged goods.

Violence, death, and violation have left her empty. Empty – numb – is horrible, but it's better than grief, right? Better than acknowledging the nightmares, the memories of dying fathers and ghost brothers and groping hands.

She should never have turned on the news. Not today, not four months ago, not four months and two days ago.

Ugh.

Forget it.

I'm going to bed, she thinks. I'm going to bed right now.

She does.

Sachiko Yagami finds her daughter lying on the living room floor, TV still blaring. She panics, but then recognizes the deep, even breaths of sleep and throws a blanket over her daughter and leaves a pillow delicately placed under her disheveled head.

../../..

Linda leans out of the window into the grime and dust of Thursday in New York. She almost lights a cigarette, before remembering she's given up smoking, and tosses the entire pack out into the street. "Free if you want it," she calls to a scruffy kid in the street, who flips her off in a friendly fashion.

She's never been a pack-a-day smoker or anything, and the smell still makes her hold her nose when it's heavy. She just got herself mildly hooked on the nicotine. Matt's fault. Gone four months and still leaving his grimy hipster fingerprints on everything she does. It's like he's haunting her.

What is she now, anyway? Artist. Resident of a decent apartment complex, clean enough. Making enough money in gallery showings to last her until her mid-thirties, at this rate, and she's barely twenty. The critics say stuff about "emotional depth," about masterful use of color and light, about hyperrealism and abstract concepts and technique to rival the greats. None of these critics seem to be able to understand that the work they are looking at is certainly that of a genius, but a twenty-year-old gum-popping genius who is phoning it in for the money until she can get her feet planted again. Which might never happen.

Of course, there are the portraits, but she never shows those to anyone. There are sketches of the boys – with bright red hair, collapsed against a wall puffing on a cigarette. Languid and lanky and lazy. With sunny blond hair – brandishing a Beretta and a gaze like ice. Hipbones, cheekbones, a jaw like cut glass. Then there's squishy little Near in his pajamas, forever an unsettlingly old twelve-year-old boy in the body of a skinny, stoic young adult. But nobody can see these fascinatingly real faces.

She collapses on the couch, face down. She's gained three pounds this week and she's craving crunchy peanut butter – like, all the time. She barely hears the door open.

"Linda?"

"Hey, Sammy."

"You don't look so good."

"I'm not feeling so good, sweetie. I gotta lot of work to do, but I don't really wanna do it."

"Well, do you wanna jam for a while? I was just bringing over some cookies, 'cause Mom said you might like some." He gives a toothy ten-year-old's grin under a net of crazy dark hair.

She should probably say no. To the cookies _and _the jam session.

"Sure, I want to jam."

Sammy is a masterful piano player, considering his age and experience, and it's a pleasure to see what he comes up with. The energy has drained out of her, so she decides on the light, easy sound of the ukulele. They break into a long, easy round of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," which they have twisted and plucked to suit their tastes. It's almost unrecognizable but for their harmonized wailings about "skies of bluuuuue." We should form a band, Linda muses. We could sell out theaters all over. A second career.

"Do you feel any better?" He mumbles over a snickerdoodle.

"I think so," she says, pushing her sweaty hair off her forehead and lacking the heart to tell him that the type of low day she's having isn't really one that's going to just _get better._ You can't really tell a ten-year-old boy how it's four months exactly since Matt died, and how she just wishes she could grab his rumpled-up self and take a long nap like they used to, or that she hasn't put her mouth on anybody else's in four months and that doesn't feel right. These are grown up problems; Sammy doesn't need to know.

"Another cookie? I gotta go do my homework after this, though."

"Yeah, thanks, little man. Tell your mom I said hi."


	2. come on, come on

**Hi, guys. I was intending to post this chapter last week, but I didn't feel like my plan for the story was developed enough, couldn't figure out what should happen first, and also was just generally unsatisfied with the quality of my work. I took four days off, refused to think about this story, and came back with a new perspective. I think I'll try to update weekly, but if I need to, I might take as long as two weeks to finish a chapter.**

**This chapter is really just laying a bit of groundwork for what's going to come in the next couple of chapters. I intend to make future chapters somewhat longer than this, but I figured new visitors might get overwhelmed by a whopper of a first chapter, and I might get overwhelmed writing it. I decided to take baby steps, and in a while the chapters will start to reach maybe five or six pages or even longer. For reference, this is a solid three. Please enjoy, and if you have any suggestions, let me know! This is me explicitly requesting your personal opinion on my work.**

"Near?"

Haze.

"Near?" A feminine voice, familiar and soft. "Are you awake?"

His eyes feel glued shut.

"Wake up, Near."

If he could just heave his eyelids open. He strains, and becomes aware of brightness turning the undersides of his eyelids that orange-y color. That's the trigger – he manages to pull himself out of the thick, syrupy sleep state. He squints and gasps in the unforgiving fluorescent light. "Where am I?"

"Hospital," Halle Lidner replies. "You were in an accident. We need you to stay still, okay? You're alright."

"I remember," he says. "I remember what happened." The jarring impact of a silver Camry skidding into the black SUV. "Am I hurt?" Stupid question. Of course.

"Your right leg and a couple of ribs are broken. You may have a concussion. But there's no reason to be particularly worried." A new voice. Gevanni. Steady; no shaking.

"I see." He tries to sit up and immediately regrets it – his muscles ache, his chest complains, and his head spins. He falls back on the pillow.

"Don't do that," says Lidner. "Wait until your head feels a little better."

"Unnnh…" is the only sound that escapes from his lips when he tries to argue.

"Get some more sleep," she says, laying a cool hand on his forehead, pushing back the sweaty curls from his eyes, and rising to leave the room. When the touch disappears, he reaches out, grasping blindly for the hand. Halle turns around, looking peculiarly distressed. She reaches back, briefly squeezes his clammy fingers, and then disconnects and leaves the room.

He sleeps.

../../..

"I love you too. I'm sorry." Halle ends the call and huffs. An airline ticket wasted and an angry sister – not her best day.

Halle's little sister Dolly Bullook is her pride and joy. Dolly attends the University of Washington in Seattle. She is an intelligent, well-adjusted, and by all accounts charming girl. She plays indie rock on a beat-up guitar. She is an engineering student. She has a steady boyfriend who, so far, has not gotten her pregnant. She is Halle's greatest job in the world, and the one at which she has come closest to success. Halle has raised her kid sister since the age of twenty-two.

But now Dolly is not feeling charitable toward her big sister.

Halle can't blame her.

Her groggy senses call for caffeine, so she shuffles her way to the cafeteria, forgoing her usually brusque, confident pace.

She knows what she'll find; lukewarm, soggy pie, watery coffee, and Gevanni staring shamelessly at some young woman's butt.

She is not disappointed (it's a statuesque woman wearing a Pink Floyd shirt).

"What are we going to do? He can't just stay at headquarters," she says, sliding into a booth with a newly purchased blueberry muffin.

"I don't know," Gevanni replies. "I'm off the clock as of today; he's not my concern."

"How can you say that?" Halle asks, unconsciously squishing her muffin in her perfectly manicured nails. "He's an injured kid with nowhere to go. How is he supposed to get along by himself? He'll be hungry and exhausted, and – dammit, Gevanni, you're supposed to be the one with a conscience!"

"What you're failing to factor into the equation is that he's intelligent and powerful enough to take over the free world. He can and has manipulated us like little finger puppets. I'm not entirely sure he's got a soul, and frankly, I do not feel particularly charitable toward someone who treats human lives like currency."

Halle opens and closes her mouth, searching for a convincing counterargument and failing. "I know," she says wearily. Her muffin is now a congealed mass of crumbs and frustration. She chucks it at the trash can. "Teenagers nowadays."

"I'm sorry," Stephen replies, rubbing at his red, tired eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have seen that car coming, but I just…And I'm sorry for dumping you with the creepy waif, too."

"Creepy waif? I've heard 'albino twit,' 'self-righteous overlord,' 'devil spawn'…but creepy waif is new."

"I like it," Gevanni chuckles.

../../..

When he wakens again, the grogginess is still hanging around him, but not so much that the pressing voice in the back of his mind is quiet. There is unfinished business to be attended to.

Narcotics have caused the pain to subside enough for Near to sit up. Halle has pronounced that he needs to eat, and has promptly ordered that someone get him some real food from outside the hospital cafeteria. Before him is a steaming chicken sandwich, a succulent fruit salad, and assorted other items he does not intend to eat. "I'd prefer just a protein bar and maybe a slice of the cake," he says.

Halle produces her best bossy maternal face (the one she uses on her sister Mary's kids when they won't get their hands off her perfume bottles) on as she says, "You are not getting one bite of that cake until you drink every single drop of your milk and eat at least six bites of everything on that tray. Have I made myself clear?"

Quite unused to being ordered around, he snarks, "I was under the impression that you are the employee, Miss Lidner."

"First of all, I have not been an employee of yours for several months. Second, you may be a legal adult, but you're not capable of taking care of yourself. I'll be acting as your guardian for the time being."

No one has been his "guardian" since Roger. "I need to leave and get back to work," he states quietly. "There's still so much to be done." He tries to convince himself that he is not being a contrary child, despite the fact that he has found himself complaining about having to drink his milk.

"You can't get your work done without brain food," Halle asserts. "Now chug."

He chugs. He petulantly slams the plastic bottle on the side table. Then he starts on the fruit, which tastes canned. Once he's tackled the chicken sandwich – the greatest struggle, considering he, by preference, tends to avoid meat – he fixes Halle with a cool stare and says, "Are you still leaving today?"

"No," she says. "I mean, I could exchange my ticket and get a later flight out or something, but I can't leave you like this. It would be…unkind, I suppose."

"It's also unkind to stand your sister up," he says, ignoring the pulsing throb in his head, which is threatening to derail this conversation.

"How did you know about her?"

"I overheard you telling Gevanni. You don't tell me these things," he says.

She shrugs. "You don't care. Anyway, she can get by without me, but with Rester gone I don't want to leave you only with Gevanni."

It's Near's turn to shrug. "I made other arrangements for cases like these," he says. "Although, unfortunately, those arrangements are likely to fall through. I suppose I do need assistance."

Halle blinks at the ceiling for several minutes, taking deep breaths as though vacillating. He can pinpoint the moment she makes up her mind, because it is that moment when she fixes her narrowed eyes on him and asks, "Do you need to come stay with me for a while?"

What a dreadful idea. "Yes," he says.

"As long as I'm not the one helping you bathe."

He sighs. "I'm sure Gevanni can be persuaded…somehow. Bribed, maybe. But, in the meantime, I have personal business to conduct, and I will apparently need to conduct it from this bed. Halle, I respectfully request that you help me. I'll refund your plane ticket to Washington."

"How uncharacteristically thoughtful of you," Halle says. "Can I assume it's something highly unpleasant?"

"Of course," says Near wryly. "How do you feel about returning to Japan for a few days?"


	3. put your hands into the fire

**Hi, guys. I'm a day late on this chapter, but I think I'm hitting my stride, and the next chapter is going to be really fun (and long, I think). This chapter is fairly raw and rather unedited, but I'm going to post it anyway and worry about the fine details later. This is another groundwork chapter. It's important to the plot, but the next one is the one I'm really looking forward to.**

_From time to time, I go looking for your photograph online_

_Some county judge in Ohio is all I ever find._

**-Dear Marie, John Mayer**

Touta Matsuda is sweeping flour off of his kitchen floor when his cell phone rings. He pulls the oven mitts off of his hands and walks in his sock feet to pick it up.

"Matsuda speaking."

"Hello, Mr. Matsuda."

Matsuda freezes in his tracks, feeling sweat break out on the back of his neck. He hasn't forgotten that computer-scrambled voice.

"It's pleasant to speak to you again."

"What do you want from me?"

"While I understand that the last time we met was a highly traumatic occasion, I'm asking you to kindly relax. I am not calling you for help on a case."

"Make your point, please."

"I am sending something to Japan with a coworker of mine, and I would appreciate it if you would ensure that it reaches Sayu Yagami safely."

"Sayu? What do you want with Sayu?!" Matsuda grips the countertop, knuckles whitening. "If you do anything to mess her up, I will personally find you and..and…I'll kill you myself, Near."

"Please, _calm down. _I assure you it is nothing of concern. As I understand it, you visit her every Saturday about 3 PM?"

"How the hell do you know that?"

"My associate will arrive at your house within half an hour."

Click.

He sinks to his knees with his head in his hands. Gunshots ring in his ears. As he begins to regain his senses, he realizes that his jeans are spotted with chocolate frosting and his pinky toe is poking through a hole in his right sock. He'll have to pull himself together if he's going to see Sayu today. He'll have to be strong enough for both of them, although dealing with Near or the institution of L in any way, shape, or form undoubtedly means confronting the very events that have left both of them so damaged.

Before he goes to change into a clean outfit, he calls the Yagami house. As he dials the numbers, he notices that his hands are trembling. He mentally berates himself for his weakness.

"Mrs. Yagami? I hate to do this to you, but I'm going to have to bring another visitor to your house today. It's kind of like police business, but unofficial. I promise we'll try very hard not to distress Sayu."

../../..

Matsuda arrives at the threshold of the Yagami house with an elegant American woman in tow.

Hal Lidner is tall and carries herself with a peculiar sort of grace that suggests that she can not only maximize the effectiveness of a short dress, but roundhouse kick you into the next dimension without ever revealing a glimpse of her classy lingerie. Seeing her in a pantsuit and lacking makeup of any sort, however, she mostly just comes off as cool and professional.

Matsuda introduces her with a stutter. Sayu entertains the idea that he might have a bit of a crush on the intimidating woman beside him, but then when she ushers the duo into the house, Matsuda practically trips over himself as he scurries away from Lidner. Maybe not, then.

"How are you doing today, Sayu?" Matsuda fiddles with his twitchy fingers, bouncing his knee rapidly. "I baked you a – oh. Darn. I left it in the car. I'm sorry, I need to get it now." He hastens toward the door, in search of some mysterious baked good left forgotten in the backseat.

Hal Lidner adjusts the creases of her pants just so around her knees as she glances across the room at Sayu. "My name is Hal Lidner," she says. "I was involved in the case a few months ago," she says. "I met your brother and his fiancée, you know? Light and Misa."

Sayu nods uneasily as the conversation immediately makes a beeline for touchy territory. Who is this woman? What's her business with the victim left behind?

"But that's not why I'm here."

Sayu stares down at her polka-dotted pajama pants, afternoon sunlight streaming down on her face. Dust motes float in the silence.

"I heard that you struggled through a lot of things during the investigation, Sayu. As I hear it, you really suffered from the time you were kidnapped onward, didn't you?"

"I don't want to talk about it with you." Sayu speaks her first words to Lidner, silently praying that Matsuda will burst through the door any second now and they can get this over with. "No offense to you or anything, but the case is closed, isn't it? It's over."

"Yes," Lidner concedes. "You don't have to talk about anything that you don't want to, Miss Yagami. I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm just a messenger."

Sayu raises her eyes to meet Lidner's, lips parted in confusion. "A messenger?"

Lidner nods. "You remember that the detective L was involved in the case?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was working with L for a while, and someone left something with L with the intent that it would reach you. I've brought it here." Lidner extends a hand, in it enclosed a creamy white envelope. Sayu reaches tentatively to take it. What could L possibly have for her? Does it have to do with Light?

Her heart beats more quickly as she slides one nail-bitten thumb under the flap and pulls out a single index card.

_Sayu – I left something for you. _

_478-735-0147 _

_Ask for Near._

_Mihael Keehl_

Sayu collapses backward against the sofa cushions. "What is this? Is this some kind of joke?"

Lidner's brow furrows. "No," she says. "It can't be. What's wrong?"

Sayu shows her the card, and Lidner gasps. "That's my personal cell phone number," she says. "He must have…oh, shit."

Sayu reads the index card over many times, feeling her heart quicken as she searches for something on the back, in the bottom of the envelope, anything that mentions where he is, what he wants, what he's doing. Anything. This is too cryptic. She's grabbed a thread, and she intends to pull and pull until she forms a snag and everything unravels into one continuous line. Something she can follow.

"Where is he?" she pleads with Lidner. "What is this? Why did he send it?"

Halle leans forward, eyebrows furrowing. "You mean you don't know what happened?"

Sayu's stomach drops to her feet. "Know what?" she breathes.

Matsuda snaps to attention as Halle calls his name. "Mr. Matsuda, did no one tell her?"

The dread climbs into her throat, forming a lump.

Matsuda shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, shoving cake around on his plate and glancing rapidly at things placed around the living room. A piece of Wedgwood pottery. The unlit television. Halle's stern and slightly panicked face. "I really thought Light did," he mumbles. "It was supposed to be good news, right?"

"I assure you, I don't personally see it as 'good news,'" Halle says icily. She turns to Sayu, softening. "Mello – Mihael Keehl – died four months ago," she says, massaging one temple. "He was indirectly killed by Kira – one of Kira's associates did it. It was a few days before the conclusion of the case."

Sayu tries to summon words, and decides that no words will do. There is no way to convey this…this _thing. _Halle and Matsuda are exchainging looks again, over her head, a silent communication in which she is not included. She looks between the two faces again, one guilt-stricken and one professional and cool, if slightly sorrowful.

"He didn't mean anything to me," she says, dropping her eyes to her lap. "He just…ruined my life. In and out. That's all."

The word comes to her. It is _rage._


End file.
